Focus
by eternalhope08
Summary: "You turned off your music for me?" She asks, surprised. "I thought of it as a trade off," he says, shrugging. "No music, but yes Pepper. Fair enough." Tony/Pepper, one shots, but all semi-related. After a year away, Chapter 9 is up!
1. Chapter 1

A/N: Because I love love love this movie

A/N: Because I love love _love_ this movie.

She's on her laptop, fingers fluttering away on the keyboard, when she hears him come up the stairs from his garage. He doesn't say anything, so she continues working, satisfied with the methodical click clack sound of confirmed press conferences and informational meetings.

She doesn't hear him go back down to his workspace, so she assumes there must be something he needs. At last, she presses the little button and sends one more e-mail, before tilting her head up and to the side, glancing at him quizzically. He's wearing a white t and jeans, both liberally stained with what she hopes is motor oil, and his hair is distinctly mussed. He has her full attention now.

A pause.

He still doesn't say anything, and the silence unnerves her. He's been watching her for the past few moments now, in the way that one might observe a particularly important scientific experiment. Closely, intensely, and entirely off-putting.

"Do you need something, Mr. Stark?" She asks at last. She will _not_ fidget. She is Pepper Potts, personal assistant extraordinaire, the model of professionalism. She will _not_ fidget. Her fingers don't listen, however, and twist nervously under his stare.

He still doesn't respond, his eyes trained on hers. She turns away first, feeling a blush spread from her chest to her hairline, and hopes fervently that he can't see it in the dim lighting. _Damn her complexion_.

"Mr. Stark, do you need something?" She asks again, and is agitated to find that her voice has risen at least half an octave.

She really shouldn't let him get to her like this. He's done nothing wrong—just standing there, quietly. He's perfectly allowed to, especially since it's his home, his living room, in which they're conversing (or not conversing. That's beside the point.). She's being illogical.

…but ever since that dance at the benefit and that conversation about _girlfriends_ before the press conference, things have been…weird between them. She isn't sure if it's a good thing.

Sometimes, she'll look up from work and catch him staring at her, in that same way. His eyes are unreadable, unfathomable, and concentrated completely on her, like the earth will stop spinning if he looks away, like she's the only thing of note in the room, in the house, in the world. She always blushes and looks away, pretends like she can't feel his dark gaze on her when she subtly exits the room (she always exits. It's the easiest way to deal with this…thing.).

Other times, he'll ask her to pass him something and when she does so, their fingertips will brush or her arm will graze his side as she moves or she'll accidentally bump into his hip as she turns around, and it's like the whole room's on fire then, like her fingers have been singed and burned and it's _ridiculous_, it's absolutely ridiculous. He's her boss and she's his assistant, and that's that. There is no room for argument.

But right now, though, his eyes are still boring into her side profile, and she can feel it, and she's going to go _crazy_ if he doesn't talk soon.

"Mr. Stark—" she begins, and even she can hear the desperation in her voice.

"Tony," he cuts off. "Pepper, it's Tony. And yes, I do need something."

She literally sags with relief.

"How can I help you, then, Mr. St—Tony?"

He drums his fingers absently on the arc reactor on his chest. He still hasn't looked away from her yet.

"Pack up your laptop," he says at last.

She looks at him in confusion, but does so, shuts the device and slides it carefully into its case.

"Good, good," he murmurs, and then he's covered the room in three strides and is by her side, picks up her computer in one hand and then encircles her wrist with the other, and begins pulling on her gently.

"Tony?" She asks, stumbling along in her four inch stilettos. Women wearing shoes like hers should not be tugged anywhere. "Tony, what is going on?"

He hushes her vaguely and begins humming something under his breath. They troop on down the stairs and down the hallway until they're in his garage. His fingers burn on her wrist, and as she enters, she can smell motor oil and grease and sweat and _man_. She avoids this place because it sends her senses into overload.

He drags her carefully to a lab table in the middle of the room, steps back for a moment as if envisioning something, and then clears a space out, places her laptop gently onto this area, and then brings his hands to her shoulders and pushes down. The pressure signifies that she should sit in the chair in front of her, so she does, utterly bewildered.

"Thank you?" She says in a small voice, more out of custom than out of comprehension.

"Now you can continue as usual," he says, and flashes her a smile, his attention completely on her again, one of those brilliant grins that he actually _means_, with white teeth and bright eyes. It makes her heart pound and her knees go weak, and she's _so _glad that she's sitting down already.

He turns back around to his gadgets and begins fiddling with one of them, expensive, delicate looking metal instrument twiddling and twirling into other expensive, delicate looking metal instrument. She watches him work, utterly fascinated, for a moment. He's always had a sort of gentleness, a refinement in his movements, and it shows so clearly here, at his private laboratory. He is a genius through and through, and despite his eccentricities, she is so privileged to be a part of his world.

Then she shakes her head slightly to clear it, and demands: "Tony, why am I down here?"

A pause. He finishes up his adjustment, and then looks up at her.

"So I can focus," he replies easily. "See, I kept on wanting to look at you, and I can't when you're all the way upstairs and I want to get something done, and if you're perfectly positioned right here, I can glance up anytime and stare all I want, then, newly refreshed, turn back and complete my projects. It won't harm you any, you can still do your work, and now I can do mine, too."

It's easy for him to say. She finds it hard to breathe, let alone do work, after he confessed something like that.

"Tony…" she begins weakly, about to protest.

"Pepper," he says, looking up and staring her in the eye again. "You don't understand. I can't focus otherwise. I seriously got more done in the past five minutes than in the last hour."

Her argument trails off midsentence and she stares at him, openmouthed, gaping most unattractively. He pretends not to notice and goes back to his machinery.

A silence. She struggles to think of something to say but predictably, he comes up with something first.

"Besides," he mutters from his crouched position by his prototypes. "It's not like I'm trying to disturb you. I even turned the music off, for your sake."

She pauses and reflects, and notices that indeed, the room is quiet, save for the soft whirrings of the metal gadgets around her.

"You turned off the music for me?"

He _never_ turns off his music.

"Well, I thought of it as a trade off," he replies, shrugging. "No music, but yes Pepper. Fair enough."

He looks up at her and shoots her a grin again, the heartbreaker kind, and she sucks in a breath and quickly opens up her laptop and begins working, looking for anything to distract herself.

When she's composed again, she sneaks a glance at him. He's back to work, a slight tilt to the corner of his lips, and she can't help but smile, too, as she watches him.


	2. Chapter 2

A/N: I saw the movie again last night, and I still adore it

**A/N: I saw the movie again last night, and I still adore it. Thus the second one-shot. Thank you all so, so much for your reviews! I seriously appreciate them ********. **

She goes to all the press conferences.

He never quite understands why; it's not like she's ever asked to speak or to comment on anything. Maybe moral support? Maybe to listen to his eloquence and charm, and watch the audience be captivated by his charisma (not likely). He isn't sure. Pepper Potts is one woman he can't read.

Today's much the same. She rides with him in Happy's car, babbles the entire way (he doesn't pay attention to a word she's saying. He does, however, pay attention to how her hair is pinned half up, half down in soft curls. He likes it like that, he decides.) about scheduling conflicts and board meetings and interviews.

"—so Mr. Stark, it's either going to be the interview with _Ellen_ or _Oprah_," she's saying. "You have to pick one; they're both at two on Wednesday. And even the great and wonderful Tony Stark can't be in two places at once."

She arches an eyebrow at him as she waits for his response, and the corner of her lips tilt upwards.

"Oh, so you think I'm great and wonderful now?" He replies. "I mean, I know I've got suave and brilliant down, but I'd be more than happy to take these new adjectives into consideration. Although I do have to say, they're somewhat repetitive; could we go with _fabulous_ and just cover all the bases?"

He watches with amusement as she fights a smile.

"I was merely repeating the phrases of the masses," she says, ducking her head slightly so he can't see her lose to that smile. Which is shame. He likes her smile. She flicks her bangs out of the way and lifts her chin once she's regained composure. "Personal assistants do not share their individual reflections _upon_ their boss _with_ their boss. We are apathetic. For all you know, I could think the masses are deluded, media influenced lunatics. Their thoughts are no reflection upon mine."

"And what would it take for you to lose said…apathy?" He asks, voice low. He's honestly curious.

She closes her eyes for a moment and lets out a breath of laughter.

"Ellen or Oprah, Mr. Stark?"

"I like your hair like this, Pepper," he continues, ignoring her. He reaches forward to run his hand through a section of hair, and then absentmindedly rubs a curl between his thumb and forefinger. She stiffens—tensed—until he removes the offending digits. "Wear it down more often. And it's Tony, Pepper."

A pause. She shakes her head.

"Ellen or Oprah, Tony?"

"Ah, first name basis!" He cries excitedly. She smiles for real now, exasperated, a full grin at his complete disregard for her question. "Well, Pepper, friends who are on a first name basis must divulge their opinion of each other to each other. That's what a first name basis incorporates."

"You just told me to call you Tony," she points out. "It wasn't a free will option, so I should not be required to obey the incorporations of a first name basis."

"I was simply clearing the path for the inevitable," he says smoothly. "You would've fallen prey to my charms sooner or later."

"As much as I appreciate your humble attempts at modesty," she begins. "I really do have to confirm a time with one of the two. Ellen or Oprah, Tony?"

"I think you mean, 'Tony, you're so unbelievably handsome and charismatic, I want to make sweet, sweet love to you all night long.' Why yes, Pepper, I wouldn't mind that in the slightest."

"Are you flirting with yourself?" She asks, amused.

"Impressive, no?"  
She laughs, and he grins at himself, pleased. A moment. He loves it when she's loose and friendly and flirty like this.

She leans in conspiratorially, and he follows suit.

"Well, Mr. Stark," she murmurs, and he can feel a shiver run down his spine. "I'm just getting used to this first name basis thing. You've been calling me Pepper for a while. I only think it just that you share first."

She means it as a joke and pulls back with a smile, but that quickly fades as she looks at his face.

He stares at her for a moment, holds her gaze intently. Her eyes are blue blue blue, clear and crisp and bright. She breaks away, lowering her eyes. He watches her as a flush climbs up her neck and spreads throughout her face. He idly wonders how far those freckles sprinkle, aware of how tense she is under his gaze. He doesn't look away still.

A moment.

"Tony—" she begins, eyes still downcast, but is cut off by a jolt.

Happy pulls into the driveway, and brings the car to a park. Tony gets out to the blinding flash of cameras, and waits for Pepper to come around on the other side.

She's biting her lip and looking oddly distressed, so he makes sure he walks with her inside. She doesn't look at him once even though it's clear he's making an effort to match her pace, just clutches her briefcase to her chest and stares at the ground.

When they enter the meeting room, Tony leans in quickly and whispers into her ear: "I think you can guess my personal opinion. I'm still waiting on yours."

The detached part of him realizes that she smells like something soft and flowery, and he likes it very much.

He strides away quickly (before he does anything stupid), excusing himself as he pushes past members of the press on his way to the podium.

The questions are the same as always: Iron Man, Post Traumatic Stress Disorder, Afghanistan, Obadiah Stane, so on and such forth. He's been drilled how to answer these things so often that the replies are automatic. Every now and then he'll flick his gaze over to the slight redheaded woman in the corner left, but she's still looking at the ground.

"Excuse me, Mr. Stark, but we haven't seen you on the errr…dating scene for a while," A clear voice calls from the front row. He starts, surprised, and sees that one reporter from Vanity Fair, …Carrie Underwood…(no wait, that's a singer…), eyebrow raised and sharp eyes accusing. "For all those smitten women out there, are you still single and searching?"

"Uhhh…" He starts off intelligently. Another gaze flick to Pepper. She's finally looking at him, he notices triumphantly.

"Well, you see," he says at last, running a hand through his hair. "There's this girl in my life."

An audible gasp, inhale of breath, passes throughout the press. He watches with glee as the people scribble this down furiously, as the cameras click.

"She's kind of in love with me," he continues. More scribbling. Pepper looks like she wants to die. "But completely in denial. She doesn't think it'll work for stupid reasons. Bright girl, but stubborn as a pig. Give her time, she'll come around. So no, I'm not exactly looking anymore. I've got everything I want and everything I need already."

He says the last line and stares intently at Pepper, his gaze not wavering. She looks up once and sees him, and a small smile quirks at her lips before she rolls her eyes. He grins back.

"Mr. Stark, what's this girl's name?"

"Mr. Stark, who is this woman?"

Shouted questions overlap from the crowd, and he hears the cameras clicking again and again and again. The rational part of him groans: he can just see the headlines tomorrow, **MYSTERIOUS WOMAN CAPTURES STARK HEART. **The immature, five year old part of him jumps up and down and giggles.

"We'll keep it secret, until she declares her passion to me," he says, shrugging. "No more questions."

Then he steps off the podium and pushes his way past the people, ignoring the demands and the bright lights and the throngs and the shoves. He walks right up to her and smiles as wide as he can.

"I'm not in love with you," she says, right off the bat.

"Mmhmm," he replies breezily. "Tell that to the blush all over your face and chest right now. By the by, do your freckles spread _everywhere_? I'm positively dying to know."

She makes a small, sputtered noise of protest at his inappropriateness.

"Relax, Pepper," he soothes. "How do you know I meant you, anyway? You know what they say, when you assume things, you make an ass out of you and me."

Apparently the combination of pick up line and doubt has stunned her, because he glances over his shoulder to see her trotting to catch up with him.

"If you didn't mean me," she frowns as she nears. Is she jealous? She's jealous! Five year old Tony Stark claps and titters. "Then who is it?"

"Ellen, Pepper," he replies. Her eyebrows shoot up into her bangs, and he almost laughs at the shock on her face. Then he clarifies. "I want the interview with Ellen. I like Ellen."

He slides into the car and shuts the door and watches as she dumps herself in, huffily.

"And Pepper? I never said I _didn't_ mean you," he whispers. She blinks once, twice. Then, at a full voice, he says: "Drive, Happy."

He grins the entire way home.


	3. Chapter 3

**Ranting, unimportant A/N: So my laptop is straight broken (the screen is all screwed up) and unless I put the perfect amount of pressure on the two opposite sides in opposite directions (meaning top left corner is pushed up, top right corner is pushed down), my computer freezes. This is difficult when one needs to type. So I have one side of the laptop screen (no joke) crammed under my bedpost, the other side propped up and gently pushed upwards by my left foot. **

**Bottom line? **

**I'd damn straight better be getting reviews up the wazoo for this. **

**My foot is falling asleep. **

**Real, Classy, Rational A/N: So this was written in like, half an hour and is completely unbetaed. My apologies for any atrocious grammar/spelling mistakes that make someone want to gouge their eyes out. **

**And thank you all so, so much for all your support and encouragement. I really do appreciate it, and please continue to read and review!**

* * *

If this is falling in love, he thinks the stories don't quite do it justice.

He's Tony Stark, so he doesn't get swoopy butterflies in the stomach feelings. Instead, he does things like lose complete control of his tongue and other basic motor skills around her.

Not that he really, honestly, had control of his tongue around her ever. He just has less than usual nowadays.

"Good God, Pepper, the only way your legs could look better is if they were wrapped around my waist while you were moaning and we were both completely naked," he blurts out one day when she clicks inside his house with a pair of five inch red stilettos on and a skirt that is—count them, not one, but _two_—_two_ inches shorter than usual. Meaning it's just barely not knee length, but that little extra skin is enough to make him seriously consider throwing all caution to the wind and just jumping her.

The mild glare she sends his way, lifted eyebrows and amusedly stern expression, is enough to stop all such considerations.

"Good morning to you, too, Mr. Stark," she drawls. "I forgot today was Tasteless Tuesday. How's that tact of yours doing, hmm?"

"Perfectly fine, thank you," he answers. "Would you like to take me up on my offer? Because I mean, I'm pretty sure there's nothing that important scheduled today that couldn't wait. And this might take a while, Pepper. I've kind of been waiting around for it."

He watches her stride briskly across the room, set down a brown parcel and two cups of coffee, and begin to unpack her laptop.

"Stop leering at me, Tony," she says absently, tucking a strand of red gold silk behind a freckled ear. "I can feel you leering."

He manages to return his features to some semblance of uncreepy normalcy before she whirls around to face him, a slight quirk to the corner of her lips.

"Jarvis?" She calls out to the air.

"Yes, Ms. Potts?"

"What would you give my greeting this bright sunny morning on our scale of inappropriateness?"

"I would estimate a 7.9 out of 10, Ms. Potts. Our highest mishap ranked a 9.1. Do you recall the Twincest Comment of January 3rd?"

"Right. Of course. How could I forget the Twincest Comment of January 3rd. Jarvis?"

"Yes, Ms. Potts?"

"Remind me to rid my wardrobe of everything that _doesn't_ come down to my knees."

"Yes, Ms. Potts."

She clicks away with a small smirk on her face and he kind of wants to strangle something.

* * *

The motor skills come second. That's when he knows that he's really screwed, when he can't do simple things like breath and walk simultaneously anymore. It's really quite a problem.

They're at some random formal event or the other, and Pepper had _insisted_ that he be there because the thing was in his honor, so he had _insisted_ that she be there with him. To keep him sane. As his date.

Nine hours, a thorough bout of silence treatment, much protest and one reluctant personal assistant later, he had successfully secured a date for this random formal event or the other.

Everything's okay until he gets a call from her saying that they'll be arriving separately, she's running late and she'll be there, she promises (here her tone grows a little irritable and bitter. Probably from the blackmail threat of exposing fake, photoshopped sex photos of the two of them to the press. She had shuddered to think of what else he did in his spare time.), but have fun and not piss too many people off and _stay safe_ without her.

And so he, scowling, had to greet the guests and shake the hands and smile the smiles and nod politely, all the while itching to go and get completely shit plastered. He is absolutely no good at this cordial crap.

Deflect and absorb.  
That's what he needs her for. To deflect and absorb.

(The smaller, quieter, smothered part of his brain also contends that he enjoys her company, likes the feel of her hand on his elbow as he murmurs snarky comments under his breath to her when they circle the room, likes the sound of her soft chuckle and the image of her barely restrained smiles, the feel of her skin and the warmth of her touch. Actually, he just likes her. Shut up, small, quiet, smothered part of brain.)

He ends up being bustled into a corner on the second floor, hovering on a balcony above the masses. He has to restrain himself from rolling his eyes when they start clapping and he catches on to what they expect from him: they want him to descend down a _red carpeted_ stairway in front of a crowd of _hundreds of people_, to make a grand entrance amidst cheers. Really, world? Please get cheesier on him. Though the applause does do _wonders_ for his ego…

And when he's about to start walking down, feeling ridiculously like the Prom King in May of his senior year in _high school_, he sees her out of the corner of his eye.

She's doing that quick half run, half brisk walk thing that she does when she's in heels and in a hurry, breathless as she approaches him. His eyes widen and jaw literally drops a good inch and a half, mouth going dry and heart speeding up, as his gaze flicks up and down her body.

"Sorry," she gasps as she straightens her skirt and her posture, leaning over to hook her arm through his, just in time to begin the descent next to him. They take the first step and then the second, slow and drawn out, and she leans over to hiss an explanation. "I didn't mean to be this late, the traffic was awful. But I don't even want to know how many people you managed to infuriate in the extra ten minute delay, though, so don't bother to tell me, Mr. Stark."

A pause.

He's still stunned speechless.

"Mr. Stark?" She says, puzzled, as she turns to him. Of all the things Tony Stark is known for, silence is not one of them. "Tony?"

He's still gaping at her, because she has absolutely no _idea_ how wonderful she looks. She's wearing something pale yellow and soft and clingy and she looks fantastic and is blissfully unawares; her hair is fantastic and her makeup is fantastic and her eyes are fantastic and she's fantastic, every little detail takes his breath away and makes his mouth go dry, and goddamnit, if she'd just _let_ him, he would spend his entire lifetime memorizing every freckle of her body, loving every inch of her stubborn, loyal, radiant soul until either her heart or his exploded.

And that realization, that burst of sudden emotion inside his chest, is way, way too much for him to handle on top of the soft, hesitantly lovely smile his stunningly beautiful assistant offers him.

What he likes to imagine happened is this: they walk smoothly down to the floor and everyone cheers until their lungs ache and clap until their hands sting. He grins charmingly at her and she smiles uncertainly back, still confused as to his silence on the stair steps.

"Mr. Stark?" She asks hesitantly, as he pulls her in close to him and leads her suavely into the first dance.

"Pepper, it's Tony," he murmurs in her ear breathily, as she flushes under his touch. She smells deliciously like vanilla this close, is delightfully receptive to the smallest stroke of his thumb across her hip. "Call me Tony. And you look beautiful."

"Tony, what's going on?" She asks, biting her lip in confusion, and that drives him over the edge.

"I'm in love with you, Pepper," he says, before tilting up her chin with one finger and grasping her chin with two, kissing her with all the passion he's bottled up for years. She gives a soft gasp of surprise before melting into him, lips parting with a quiet moan.

What actually happens is this: he trips.

It's not just a stumble, not one of those small mishaps that can be corrected immediately and then prayed fervently about, in hopes that no one was witness.

He straight misses a step on the staircase and tumbles, head over heels, down.

Furthermore, he somehow manages to rip off a good portion of the skirt of Pepper's dress while he is flailing about for balance, grabbing on to anything in an attempt to regain control.

Each individual stair seems to have a personal vendetta against him, knocking their solid edges into his very vulnerable flesh. He ends up in an extremely bruised and dazed pile at the bottom of the staircase, and hears the collective gasp of the horrified audience over the throbbing headache that is suddenly developing.

Pepper storms down the rest of the steps in a flurry of ripped yellow dress and heels (damnit, she's wearing _heels_, and she didn't fall).

"Oh my god, Tony, are you alright?" She asks worriedly, picking up his head and moving it gently into her lap. Her hands pat all over his face and body in vain, trying to find some injury. He doesn't mind.

"A little ruffled, but perfectly fine," he groans, waving her off with a handful of torn yellow fabric in what he hopes is a carelessly nonchalant manner. He tries to sit up, but winces and falls back. "I'd be a little better if you could tell me the past ten ridiculously humiliating seconds were all just a really, really bad dream though, Pepper."

Her lips twitch.

"The past ten ridiculously humiliating seconds were all just a really, really bad dream, Tony," she repeats in a murmur.

"Really, Pepper?" He asks hopefully, raising his head again.

She chokes back what would otherwise have surely been a shriek of laughter.

"No, Tony, I was just lying to you because you asked me to. Now lie still, you've got a bump the size of a goose egg on your head."

He settles back into her lap with a moan.

"That was awful."

A moment.

"That was hilarious," she corrects, and then she starts giggling like mad behind her hand, trying to muffle it but failing miserably.

He scowls in her lap, but it's kind of hard to really mean it when he's _in her lap_ and she's laughing cutely, happy and enjoying herself.

"You, Ms. Potts, are a mean woman," he huffs.

"You, Mr. Stark, are fine, and thus I laugh. And you have half of my very expensive dress that is now ruined in your hands," she replies. "So I would stay silent if I were you."

"Fair enough."

They stay quiet there for a moment, while he debates telling her of his revelation.

All around them, the crowd is snapping pictures while being blocked off by policemen, or protesting as the paramedics shove their way through.

He decides to go for it.

"I had a reason, you know," he begins carefully, as the trained professionals arrive on the scene.

"For what?" She asks as he is lifted up, very gently, off her lap, and put onto a stretcher.

"For falling," he replies. "I was distracted because I suddenly realized that I am very, very much in love with you."

She freezes.

A pause.

"Tony, let's talk about this when you're _not_ getting rolled away on a stretcher with a swollen bruise the size of Jupiter on your head."

He huffs again.

"They're overreacting, it was nothing," he scowls. Pepper ignores him.

This is way, way worse than anything butterflies in stomachs have to offer.

* * *

**A/N: Oh my god. That was seriously the most fun I've had writing in forever. Let me know what you guys think of it? I sat here and giggled to myself and sounded stupid. Hopefully someone else finds it funny. **

**Please please please read and review!!**


	4. Chapter 4

A/N: Yeah, I suck

**Non-Story-Related A/N: Yeah, I suck. I've been at church camp and out of town and at my job and busybusybusy packing for college, but I'm back. **

…**ish. It's going to be a rough month. Don't expect mass updates.**

**BUT the more you review, the quicker I'll throw up the next chapter! **

**Speaking of which, thank you all so much for your overwhelming support last time. I sincerely appreciate each and every comment. **

**Story A/N: Because I wanted something softer.**

He lands as gently as possible, but cannot prevent the muffled thud of heavy metal upon hard floor or the strikingly loud silence after he kills power, amplified by the loss of the constant presence of whirring engines.

A moment.

He counts to all of five before he hears her heels clicking down the stairs to the basement. A soft smile flits across his face unconsciously upon seeing her.

She's dressed like usual; smart black business suit with white collar peeking out. Inhumanely high stilettos, hair pulled back into a low ponytail. Her face is expressionless, smooth and calm as she comes to a stop in front of him, clutching a small plastic box loosely to her chest.

"It's three a.m., Potts," he drawls. The machines around him get to work, twirling and whirring and spinning to relieve him of his iron cage. The mask goes off first, and he shakes his head a little, enjoying the freedom and fresh air. He can't hold back a wince as someone—Dummy, probably—pulls a little too hard on the right arm. "Why aren't you home, asleep in your bed?"

She doesn't answer, just stands there and watches demurely.

"I appreciate your dedication," he continues. "But I mean, at a certain point it just becomes inhuman. I don't want to ruin your life or anything, Pepper." He shoots her a solemn look, eyes dark and somber. "I'm being serious here."

She still stands, speechless, hands clasped in front of her over the box. Dummy continues to struggle with his right arm.

"Take a day off, Potts," he says, waving his free left hand. "Better yet, take a week off. Make that a month. You deserve it. Go to the beach. The spa. Go shopping—ooh, buy some more dresses like the last one. I liked that one rather a lot. What else do people do on vacation? Read books, sleep in, take bubble baths. Preferably with their very attractive boss in the tub with them, but I mean, not all dreams can come true." He's in the middle of a disappointed shrug and a rakish smirk when Dummy gives a tug that's way, way too rough for his arm, and he lets out a yelp and winces visibly.

When he looks back at Pepper, she's no longer expressionless. Her face is white, drawn. She's biting at her lip and under this light, he can see the bags under her eyes, covered expertly with makeup but still marring her delicate skin.

"I'm fine, Pepper," he says quietly. Flinching slightly, he twists his arm back and then rotates it up, and finally slides out of the suit. He flicks an annoyed look at Dummy before gingerly stepping off the platform, earning a small whimper from the defeated device. He walks right up to her and spreads his arms wide (admittedly, with effort).

"See?" He demands through slightly gritted teeth. His right arm _aches_ when he holds it like that, so he drops the pose quickly. "Perfectly fine."

She steps in close to him, and he sucks in a breath. Her brow furrows as she reaches up with one hand and brushes his forehead, her touch feather light. She pulls away with a trace of blood on her fingers from the cut on his hairline.

"Superficial wound," he coughs. This close, he can smell her perfume, and he has to clear his throat to stop from gulping visibly. "No biggie."

"Take your shirt off," she says in reply.

A pause. He blinks once, twice.

"Sorry, what?"

She rolls her eyes but repeats what she said.

"Potts, I've wanted to hear you say that for quite a while now, but I was imagining you in the throes of ecstasy when those words were uttered."

She purses her lips together and lifts one elegant eyebrow, and he is a goner. Heaving a sigh, he gingerly reaches for the hem of his black underarmour and pulls upwards. At a certain point, his right arm won't go any further, and he hisses in pain. Her hands are there, soft and small and warm, to help pull it up and off him.

She lets out a long, low breath and murmurs: "Oh, Tony."

"It's not that bad, is it?" He questions, trying to twist around so he can see the back of his right shoulder. Out of the corner of his eye, he catches a glimpse of something purple and green and blackish, a huge splotch that spreads from his shoulder blade to his elbow. "Oh."

He glances back at Pepper and sees her with that look on her face again, the one he hates.

"Pepper," he says, twisting towards her, all the humor out of his voice. He hates that look. No matter how long he lives, he will never be able to erase the image of her white face from his memory. He means to tell her that he's fine, really, stop worrying, but he never gets to it.

"Turn back around, Stark," she cuts in, her tone commanding. Half shocked, half impressed, he obeys. He had thought her more likely of fainting than ordering him around but then again, this is Pepper Potts. If he had learned one thing over the years, it was to never underestimate this woman. Or her bossiness.

He stands there for all of two puzzled seconds before her hands touch his back, rubbing and smoothing some creamy ointment, mint like in smell and tingly effect, across his skin.

"What…what is this?" He manages to say, biting back a moan when her fingers skim across his lower back and spine.

"A new salve that I found at the store for cuts and bruises," she replies simply. "Don't move, Tony." He falls back into silence after that, concentrating on the sensation of it all. He arches his back once when she presses down too hard, but otherwise has to resist a shiver at the contact. Her touch is deliciously gentle and soothing, and he all but melts into her hands.

A too short blissful eternity later, she pulls away from him, and he can't help but let out a regretful moan.

"Good Lord, Pepper," he mutters, shaking himself from the reverie. "Have you always been that good with your hands?" The sexual connotation hits him after the words have left his mouth, and he has to fight to keep the images out of his head. Those would be far, far too distracting when trying to talk to Pepper.

She ignores him completely. "Let it dry for ten minutes and then leave that on there for at least six hours," she instructs. "I would suggest just sleeping shirtless because you seem to have trouble getting your clothing on and off. The medicine should have kicked in when you wake up tomorrow morning."

He opens his mouth to speak, but she interrupts him again. "And you can restrain whatever inappropriate remark you were going to say about me wanting to see you sleeping shirtless. It's clichéd, Stark. Where is your creativity?"

His jaw is agape as he stares at her, slightly stunned by her uppity attitude. She allows the briefest flicker of a smile to flit across her face before becoming serious again.

"Let me see the cut on your head."

She reaches into the little plastic box she had been holding (so that's where she got it all) and pulls out a cartoon Winnie the Pooh band aid and a tube of Neosporin. He raises his eyebrow at the orange Tigger drawings that are about to go on his face. She remains impassive.

After disinfecting the cut with a small antiseptic towelette (that _burns_), she dabs some ointment on the cut and then covers it (still expressionless) with the strip. He tries to look at it by rolling his eyes upwards, but can only catch a shadow. He pouts in response to the failure. Her lips twitch now.

"I'll reapply it in the morning with a more…dignified band-aid," she says. "But this will suffice for the night. I'm assuming, Mr. Stark, that there are no…guests…staying over who might witness this small dent to your ego?"

"None," he promises. He wants to say something about how the only person he wants in his bed from now to eternity is her, but that sounds way too cheesy, and it's absolutely the wrong time. The woman just bandaged him with a Tigger band-aid, for heaven's sake. T-I-Double Grrr does not spell romance.

"Good," she says, nodding firmly. "Then you should be fine for the night." She then offers him a small smile and says the typical parting line. "Will that be all then, Mr. Stark?"

A moment. He hesitates.

"No, that's not all, Pepper," he replies. He reaches over and takes her hands in his, gently, aware that they still smell like the bruise salve, and holds them in his own for a bit. His thumbs rub unconsciously across her knuckles, and he, looking down, marvels at how _small_ and _delicate _she is. When he flicks his gaze back up to hers, he's momentarily stunned by how blue her eyes are and has to suck in a deep breath to steady himself. "I just wanted to say that I appreciate you and everything you have done for me. You are, Ms. Potts, a heroine—a life saver. Multiple times over. So thank you. For your support, for your loyalty, and for your friendship."

She blinks at his unexpected sincerity, and pulls away from him, a slow blush creeping over her freckled cheeks.

"Of course, Mr. Stark," she murmurs, still not meeting his gaze. "Will that be all now?"

He pauses and thinks, and decides that tonight seems like a good night for bravery.

"Still no. You forgot one thing that could help me heal faster."

She quirks an eyebrow and waits for him to speak.

"Kiss me and make it better."

She closes her eyes and a true smile spreads across her face, warm like sunshine. He revels in her glory. When she opens her eyes again, there is amusement and affection dancing in her eyes, and he thinks he could deal with this life thing forever if only she was there to look at him like that through all of it.

"You didn't get it quite right, Mr. Stark," she whispers conspiratorially, leaning close and tilting her lips towards his ear until they are inches away. He swallows audibly. "It's 'kiss _it_ and make it better.'"

Then she's on tiptoe (in _stilettos_. The woman is a marvel.) and has pressed her lips very, very softly to the Tigger band-aid, lingers there for a moment so that he is thoroughly stunned, and then pulls away. The smirk is defined now, every ounce of self-enjoyment thoroughly clarified on her face.

"Good night, Tony," she says softly, before turning and climbing the stairs. He stands there, still staggered, until the gentle clicking of her heels has faded.

**A/N: I love writing these. I hope you guys are enjoying reading them?  
Review, please, and let me know what you thought! Again, thank you SO much for your continued support. I appreciate each and every one of you infinitely.**


	5. Chapter 5

**A/N: Hi guys! This is the last chapter I'm writing at home. I leave tomorrow for college. It's so scary. **

**I had a request to write something a little more serious. Most of my one-shots until now have been pretty lighthearted, but I decided to shift gears a little bit. Plus, I'm in a melancholy sort of mood what with the whole **_**going eight hours away**_** thing. It's also kind of short because I'm so busy recently…**

**Thank you all so, so much for reviewing and giving me your thoughts, input, constructive criticism. I'm so glad you all have been enjoying this as much as I have. **

**Now, please keep reading and reviewing! And drop me an extra one to help me through this traumatizing time :). **

**I am so grateful. **

* * *

They had a chance at something beautiful, but he fucks it up like always.

You see, she is perfect. She is beauty and she is elegance and she is grace and subtle, classy, understated magnificence. He's never had to deal with something so breathtaking before. All his machinery, the creations with years of research and miniscule details that cost millions, all his inventions and comprehensive genius, could not compare to the perfect, random scatter of freckles across her fine skin, dainty and pale and dusted with glory. No matter how many women he had, nothing could match the way his heart stopped when the sun the hit her hair just right, when she _burned_ and blazed and set fire to his world.

She is the best thing that has ever happened to him.

And so he fucks it up, because that's what he does when good things happen to him.

He stops treating her like the warm, living, breathing human being she really is and puts her atop a pedestal. In his defense, it's an easy mistake to make. The woman is like a goddess, always calm and collected and on top of whatever disaster the world throws her way. She deals with every catastrophe with a brilliant smile and soft blue eyes that reflect all hope and clear bright summer days and love love crazy love. He doesn't know how to deal with such captivation, and so he transforms her to something untouchable, untainted in his eyes.

And so he pulls away from her slowly, afraid to ruin her with his presence. He stops telling her about how she is his only, ceases all mentions of that one night at the fireman's benefit when his heart skipped and she shone so bright she glowed, pushes the memory of her iridescence to the back of his mind. The flirty comments slow to a halt, the friendly camaraderie is blocked and dammed in its flow. He watches her day in and day out, aware of her perfection and her beauty, and even more aware of his own unworthiness. He cannot poison her, her, the best thing that has happened to his life. Sometimes, when she's talking to him and looking at her notes and writing on her clipboard and checking items off the agenda, when she's busy and organized and on task, he sits and watches her, memorizes every curve of her smile and silhouette of her body. He cannot believe she is real. He loves her too much. And so he pulls away from her.

She's not stupid. She notices. He watches her desperate frustration and her confusion and is helpless to stop it all from happening, is unaware of the destruction his idolization has caused, watches one domino topple after another until the universe collides and they explode implode crumble shatter dissolve.

He stands, silent and wordless and numb, while she rants and screams and shouts until the tears overwhelm her radiant eyes and down her immaculate face and smear her makeup, until the sight of her, red eyed and sniffling, is burned into his prodigy mind and its photographic memory. And he still stands, powerless and vulnerable and speechless, as she turns on her five inch stiletto heel and runs sobbing from his living room.

He stays there for a quite a while, too. The scientific part of his brain tells him that it isn't the myriad of minutes, the yearning infinity his heart feels. But it's quite a while. He stands there and feels something break, gentle and yielding, inside. He waits until it's done splintering and then goes and pours himself a glass of scotch that turns into two that turns into six that turns into dark, blissful oblivion. He still hasn't said a word.

The next day, she comes to work quiet and reserved but prompt as always. It's the promptness that breaks his heart. He wants to see her affected, wants some way to apologize. But she is still whole and complete and untouched, and he doesn't want to mess with what is already faultless. He watches her through her precise speeches, signs on the dotted line and reads what is highlighted, listens without hearing every meeting and conference he is obligated to attend. And he goes without protest or a word, does everything she asks obediently, and feels his soul smoothly fade into a shadow of what it once was, feels himself slip into an echo of his fire and burst and incandescence. He cannot burn without her.

* * *

When she finally notices Happy's attention and eager affection, she accepts it gratefully. He watches their relationship progress without a word (likeinthelivingroom andtheyellingandGod,if hecould'veopenedhismouth, hewould'vesaid_IloveyouIloveyouIloveyou_ andwhisperedthattoher **everyday** fromthen untilhisheartstopped beating) and opens the envelope with the invitation to their wedding silently. He goes and stands in the sidelines and congratulates both of them very cordially. Inside, he knows that if he hadn't gotten used to the ache the throb the pain the _burn_ already, he would be screaming from pain.

There is a moment when most of the guests have left and the room is quieted when their eyes meet and her happy smile (ha. Happy smile, Happy smile. Her smile is no longer his.) dims for a moment, falters. She sees him and his slouched figure, hands shoved in pockets, wry smile on face, and glimpses all of him, every broken and beaten and dirty part of his being, for one moment, and loves him, he knows it, can see it in those clear depths of blue and in the way her skin still flushes for him and in the smattering of freckles he knows so well, in the soft gold light that still lights up her hair his world. He burns for a moment again, fierce and bright like old times, and prays fervently that she can see the apology in his eyes as well.

They could've been something beautiful, but he fucked it up.

At least she will always remain beautiful. The thought stings at first, because he wants her to be his beautiful, but he gets used to it.

It's enough to keep him going.

* * *

**A/N: Um. Please read and review? It's a lot angstier/more emo than usual, but someone said they wanted something serious, and I could really see this happening between Tony and Pepper. And remember, it's a oneshot. All of these are. So next chapter, when I'm feeling happier, they'll probably be all snarky romantic again.  
**

**Please please please tell me how this one went. I was hesitant to upload it, but decided to do it anyway.  
**

**Oh, and let me know if you like these sadder ones, too. I'm probably going to stick mostly to the happy stuff, but if you guys want, I can throw in a few of these.**

**  
Thank you so, so much again :). **

**I'm telling you, the more you review, the quicker I update.**


	6. Chapter 6 aka Take One

**A/N: First chapter written at college. Unbeated, because I think I've made you all wait long enough for this update. I mean, I normally post stuff without a beta (which is just stupid, because I have a brilliant friend who is totally willing to help me out here), but this is like...I wrote it and never reread it unbetaed. I apologize in advance for any atrocious grammar/spelling/OOC mistakes that have you cringing in pain. I just thought I'd been a bad enough ff author, might as well make it a little worse.  
**

**Speaking of which...I'm so sorry for the delay, but it's been quite an adjustment, this new life of mine. I really wasn't in the mood for writing for forever, but it's coming back. Slowly, but surely. Please keep reviewing. Your support means so much to me, and I sincerely appreciate every single one of you :). **

**Anyway, this idea absolutely fascinates me, and so I've decided to take it from as many angles/plot bunnies as attack. I love being able to write one shot after one shot. So I guess this is a series, ish, all kind of interrelated, centered around a common theme. **

**So yeah. **

**Oh, and this one is definitely rated T. There's nothing explicit, but innuendos run rampant. Just FYI. Sorry, guys. I just thought Tony's mind might not be the cleanest place to be, so umm…you've been warned.**

**This chapter's **_**Take One.**_

* * *

She kisses him.

It's been one year, seven months, and twelve days since the firemen gala, one year, eight months, and three days since he returned from his own personal, eye opening hell.

After Stane went crazy and after what he likes to refer to as "The Announcement" (capital T, capital A), it took them a while to settle back down to_ normal_. By _normal_, he by no means refers to a typical employer employee relationship. He doesn't even know how he managed to go so many years in that farce with Pepper. Sometimes, when he thinks too hard and too much, he flinches at memories of how easily he took her for granted, how he brushed her and all their potential aside so flippantly, ignored what was so obvious.

By _normal_, he means that he's in love with her and he'll do anything to keep her--including pretending to be nothing more than completely professional with the woman with whom he wants to spend eternity. He'll wait. He can do patient. He's done it before.

Now _commitment_? He's never done _commitment_, but it doesn't bother him at all. There are no doubts about fidelity or possible future one night stands, heart shattering break ups and sobbing red heads, a beautiful what could have been crushed to shards by his actions. It's strange and difficult to explain, but basically, it comes down to this: Pepper holds his heart. She's completely oblivious to it, but that makes it no less true. There could be no other, not while she lived and breathed and smiled and glowed and blinded him. He can think of nothing, ever, that can tempt him from her.

She's not so certain. He sees it in her eyes, in the way she bites her lip and lowers her gaze when things become too intense between them, when he leaks out a little bit of the burn he holds inside for her. She isn't sure if she can trust him, and he doesn't blame her. He understands. He's not stupid. Tony Stark is many things, but stupid isn't one of them. He hasn't exactly been model boyfriend material. Plus, she works for him and he pays her and blah blah blah, maintain a measure of professionalism, so on and such forth. He truly doesn't give a shit, and would probably screw her in front of the masses during a public announcement if she would let him.

Mmm.

He's not saying it isn't hard, because it is. He's not used to waiting, and he literally _aches_ for her sometimes, when her lips curl upwards in a reluctant smile at something he does, when she looks at him after returning from a mission with something deep and hard in her eyes. Her snappy comebacks, the way she walks all over him and refuses to let him push her around. He finds her dedication to work adorable, her diligence and determination nothing short of praiseworthy.

He wants her, bad. When she thinks he isn't watching and she pauses, stops her furious typing and clicking on the laptop and glances at him, soft and gentle and hesitant. When she wears dresses that cling to her curves and drop daringly in the back, when her satin smooth skin is bared to his fingertips. When she sweeps her red gold silk hair behind her shoulders and he can smell her perfume—it's subtle and elegant and classy and _Pepper_, it's Pepper and it kills him.

It's the worst when she's laughing, completely at ease by his side, full out letting loose, her face glowing in happiness. That's when it gets really hard, and he wants nothing more than to grab her and kiss her until she can't breathe can't think can't overanalyze, hold her close and warm and soft.

But he will do anything to keep her, as previously established, and so he allows her her space and demeanor, her pretence that all things are still work related as always. It's her safety net, her fallback, her barrier between that horrifying leap of faith in him. He's sure that someday she won't need it anymore. And when she does, she'll act. He'll wait for her to make the first move. That's the best way to keep her, to love her quietly until she realizes it and returns it.

* * *

Around month six, he starts going crazy. He's never been denied something desirable for so long before. Every word, every small smile, every accidental brush of skin on skin makes his heart race and his breath catch in his throat and his voice hoarse and husky. It doesn't help when she blushes every time and he catches a glimpse of gold dust upon red flush, a small smattering of freckles that are so endearingly adorable that he has to bite his tongue to stop from roughly declaring _iloveyou iloveyou iloveyou, iloveeveryinchofyou_.

So he leaves for a week, excusing himself on a mission to save the world. The Iron Man thing comes in handy. He takes seven days off, completely shut off from her and her heart wrenching glory. He figures it's a good way to let off a little stress, and to stop himself from doing anything stupid.

It helps, it does. The initial return is difficult—because she runs up to him in five inch heels (seriously—runs. The woman is a marvel.) with frenzied desperation on her face and throws her arms around his neck, suit and all, and whispers fiercely in his ear: "Don't you ever do that again, Tony Stark." Then she pulls back and bites her lip (_damn_ that lower lip, it will absolutely murder him someday) worriedly, like she's scared she might've crossed some line or something. She can't see him roll his eyes, so she steps back quickly, straightens her shirt and her skirt and her shoulders, and declares clearly how the extended silence was not appreciated; she'd had to cancel so many conferences and board meetings without a good reason. Rescheduling these things were immensely time consuming.

The complete lack of contact might've been too much, but honestly, how is he supposed to otherwise honor what she has clearly established as her preference: professionalism, always?

* * *

He manages to pass the one year anniversary with his sanity (somewhat) intact. He won't lie, though; his dreams are starting to cause real problems. They go back to the firemen's gala, the annual dance, and she wears something stunning and clinging and backless (it seems to have become tradition) and the tiny smile that tugs at her lips when his jaw drops upon seeing her is radiating self satisfaction. He's speechless for a good five seconds, and she basks in every ounce of it.

"Good evening, Mr. Stark," she murmurs when she reaches him.

He merely nods and swallows and feels his jaw clench when he grits his teeth harder. He holds the door open for her and flinches slightly when her fingers grip his as he helps her in. His fingers still tingle the entire drive over, and he must admit he isn't a very enthralling conversationalist when he's focusing entirely on not _jumping her_ right there and then in the car. The gala can wait for an hour or twelve. He glances over at her, with her hair down in soft curls and eyes softly glistening, dress still plum and magnificent, and thinks: _It might take more than twelve hours._

When they arrive, however, he has pulled himself and he is twice as charming, twice as enchanting, and twice as witty and suave and debonair. He makes up with scintillating comments and smiles and graceful dancing. The night, overall, is a brilliant success. Pepper's cheeks are flushed from both the dancing (he didn't leave her side for a moment) and the constant shower of compliments he has sent her way. He sends her home thoroughly bewitched, intoxicated by his presence.

His dreams don't end in quite such innocence, however. It starts becoming a repeated occurrence; her lips, swollen and gasping under his, his calloused fingers exploring her skin. And then he wakes up panting and chides himself with shame. He's Tony Stark, not some adolescent boy going through hormonal puberty. It's pathetic and it's saddening and he doesn't like it one bit, because he knows he could solve his problems with one trip to the local pub, but hey, patience pays off, right?

It'd better.

This whole thing is mortifying.

* * *

A year and a half. He can't take this, he can't. She is constantly there; some sweet torture to remind him of what is his but isn't yet. He will explode, implode, crumble—shatter, if something doesn't happen soon, if he doesn't have some way to let her know that he is _dying_ here.

"I'm in love with you, you know," he murmurs casually as he twiddles with another one of his mechanisms. There's a bolt come undone that needs to be tightened, and he breathes out the words off handedly as he twirls a screw into the little notch.

She's been in his workshop for three hours, typing on her laptop quietly as per usual. The clicking stops for a moment, and he glances up quickly to see her completely frozen, eyes wide, chest heaving slightly as she stares at the screen. She still hasn't looked up at him. Then she takes a deep breath—inhales, exhales.

"I know," she says simply. Her fingers click and clack and flutter again over the keyboards.

He nods and returns to work.

They don't talk about it past that. When they eat lunch together and their fingers brush when he hands her the silverware wordlessly, she doesn't even blush anymore. She lifts her chin a little higher and firmly thanks him politely, like today never happened.

He gives up a little then, as she sips her soup and chews delicately at her sandwich. Something in him cracks, like how he thought it would, surrenders. He will keep waiting as he always has, but hope has flickered and given slightly, dimmer and quickly fading. His love means nothing to her.

* * *

Then, a year, seven months, and twelve days later, she kisses him.

He wakes up and yawns and brushes his teeth and showers and gets dressed and heads down and sees Pepper. Same as always, straight backed on the couch, Bluetooth in ear and Blackberry by side. She's speaking exasperatedly into the headset, probably arguing with some board member about some finicky detail. She pauses her conversation and looks up at him.

"Good morning, Mr. Stark," she greets as always when she sees him, face and voice serene. "There are cookies on the table."

"It's a Saturday, Potts," he grumbles as always, grateful though he is for the food. "You shouldn't be here, especially not this early."

"There's a half gallon of whole milk in the refrigerator since you seem to prefer it so highly," she continues, like she hasn't heard him.

He doesn't really pay attention to the click of the phone when she hangs up to him. The cookies are delicious. Key lime pie. His favorite.

"What aren't you good at, woman," he mutters as he devours another one happily, chugs the milk.

"What was that?" She asks calmly as she approaches him, comes to nibble at one by his side. She licks her lips to get at a crumb on the lower corner, and he about collapses next to her. Clearing his throat, he repeats:

"What aren't you good at?"

She pauses, thinks, cocks her head to one side and furrows her brow, chews her lip, like she's really thinking.

"Hmmm…" she considers. "That's difficult. Probably a lot. Such as not letting my boss know that I love him back."

Then she is on tip toe and has softly pressed her lips to his.

And the words haven't even hit him and registered fully in his brain before she's pulling back. His eyes are wide, popping out of his face, and he realizes that he's staring at her, complete shock scribbled on every feature.

She giggles.

Pepper Potts, personal assistant and professional extraordinaire, giggles like a teenage girl.

He falls, if possible, even deeper in love.

And then it hits him that she's standing here, the smallest of smiles still lingering on her lips—lips that have curved into that soft grin for forever, lips that let out the most beautiful laugh ever, lips that are slowly chewed when nervous or worried or anxious or deep in though, lips that have just _touched his_—and he lets out one gasped "_Pepper!"_ before he's kissing her again, pushing her into the fridge behind her.

His fingers tremble when they push her hair back from her face, his heart pounds so loud and so hot and so frantically against his ribcage that he's afraid something might break. She tastes like key lime pie and milk, like freedom and glory and love and patience and waitingwaitingwaiting, always wanting until finally—oh, _finally_. Her arms come to lock behind his neck, content to simply hold him and be kissed, thoroughly.

When he pulls back, he leans his forehead on hers and his breathing is ragged and he's only _kissed_ her, for heavens' sake. This is no big deal. He shouldn't be feeling like the world has slipped and shifted, tilted entirely askew, off its axes, to re-center on her, her as the focus, her as the new line of revolution. But the way his fingers still shake and the heat inside him, finally allowed to burst forth, swallow his senses beg to differ.

"Pepper," he murmurs again, running one shaky finger across those flushed cheeks dusted with those gold freckles, taking in one shaky breath on shaky legs.

"Yes, Tony?" She replies, smiling.

He scrambles for a moment for words, for something that can describe how he feels like floating and flying and soaring, how there's too much inside him, too much for one person to hold, how he now knows what birds feel like when they glide into the sunset. He now knows how sunsets feel, for that matter, when they burst into torrents of color, explosions of glory on the dusky sky. He is invincible in this moment, eternal in ways that his inventions and his intelligence and his success can never make him. Nothing can harm him, because _Pepper loves him_ and he wants to cry and sing and shout all at the same time, because he is so overwhelmed, so completely swallowed by _lovelovecrazylove_.

He settles, instead, for: "You've got frosting on your lip."

He probably put it there, so he allows himself to graciously take it off.

* * *

**A/N: Fluffy. Ridiculous. I don't know if I like it, but it would NOT leave my mind ever since a friend baked key lime pie cookies (they sound gross, but they are SO GOOD) for a going away party. **

**BUT also ridiculously long for me. I never write one shots this long. So I think I deserve some credit for pushing through it ********.**

**Please please please read and review? I hope you all liked it. I miss writing so, so much, and your support keeps me going. **


	7. Chapter 7 aka Take Two

**A/N: It's been forever, I know. My apologies. Life, midterms. You know how it is. Please forgive me for the massive delay? Winter break is coming up and I pinky promise to get up at least two more one-shots in that month long period. It's been forever since I've written, anyway. I kind of need to get on that. **

**So, as a preface: I was walking home from a run at the university gym, and it was cold and brisk and icky outside, but I passed by a machine Santa Claus in a store that was blasting Christmas music. The thing was rickety and cheesy and utterly unbelievable, but oddly, the inspiration for this little bit. Happy Holidays, everyone.**

**This is First Kiss, Take Two. Another option for how it could've happened. Unbetaed and unedited because I'm a fool like that. BUT a lot longer than I normally write! To make up for the wait a little, I guess?  
**

**I have a few more of these bubbling inside my head, so keep reading and reviewing :). You all encourage me so much more than words can express, and I appreciate everyone's input and comment greatly.

* * *

  
**

Tony makes her smile so hard sometimes that her face physically aches.

Right now, he's got two kids wrapped around his right leg—literally entwined, arms and legs and limbs chaotic—and one up on his shoulders. A little girl keeps tugging at his sleeve, so he gingerly reaches down to hold her hand while using the other arm to keep the giggling toddler on his neck balanced.

He catches her eye above the swarm of kids surrounding her, and they share a brief grin across the room. Then she feels her eyes soften and herself melt, so she quickly glances away and distracts herself by demonstrating the mechanics of a nearby toy to a puzzled boy with a mop of brown curls.

This is by far the best charity event of the year. There are no Armani suits and Gucci dresses, no ties and heels and make-up. She's in jeans and an old hoodie from the glory volleyball days in college, sneakers for the inevitable game of tag.

She loves kids. No one knows it because she doesn't have ample opportunity to display it, but she really does. To walk in here and see such beautiful children--dimples and curls and laughter and sunshine--in such a dismay environment breaks her heart. Stark Industries, Inc. has always been very generous to the local orphanage, though. It appeases things only slightly.

"I want to play a game," a little blonde says into Pepper's right ear, insistently poking her arm as she speaks. Pepper smiles and brushes the girl's hair back fondly.

"What kind of game?" The question is gentle and soft spoken, but all around her, little ears perk up and inquisitive minds listen closely.

The little beauty is suddenly nervous, shyly shrinking from the tall redheaded woman, sucking on her thumb. She remains silent.

"Hide and seek!" The curly haired boy pipes up. "Adam wants to play hide and seek."

"He always refers to himself by his name," an older girl sighs, rolling her eyes in exasperation. "It's called 'the third person', you know. I don't know why, because there are only two of us—me, and Adam. But the third person, whoever he is, is very annoying."

Pepper bites back a smile, and hears Tony chuckle from across the room. She pulls Adam-who-refers-to-himself-in-the-third-person closer to her, and gives his shoulders a little squeeze.

"Let's do it," she says, watching his eyes brighten and his face quirk into a crooked dimpled smile. "I think it sounds like a fantastic idea."

"We could open presents after," Tony suggests. "If you get caught, you are punished by having to open up a gift."

"That's not a punishment!" Someone giggles. "That's a _good_ thing, silly."

"No it's not. It's awful," Tony intones solemnly. "The most devious form of torture. That's why Ms. Potts and I aren't going to hide and get caught. Because we don't want to open up presents."

"And because we're the best hiders ever," Pepper adds. Tony looks at her and nods, straight-faced.

"That's a good point. We are the sneakiest hiders ever _and_ presents are icky." "Despairingly so."

Tony shoots her a brief grin before turning to the crowd, the amassed children who are watching the exchange with an expression of horrified bewilderment—they cannot quite follow the banter and language, but are aware that the words '_presents_' and '_icky_' have been used together in a sentence without an interceding '_not_.' This is blasphemy at its worst, and Tony is the cherry on the sundae when he smiles deviously, wiggles his eyebrows, and proclaims: "I know you all don't want to open presents, so you'd better hide well."

The kids explode in an uproar--some yelling that they are actually the bestest hiders, some arguing with Tony (who shakes his head somberly in disagreement) about the benefits of presents, some giggling at the toddler who has just drooled all over said boss's hair. She does the last as well.

Finally, it is Tony's booming voice that carries over the crowd and the chaos: "I'm going to count to a hundred! ONE…TWO…THREE…"

The children erupt into a mass of squeals and scatter throughout the orphanage, screaming and laughing and a whirlwind of chaos. Everyone scrambles to their feet, runs giggling from the room into the reaches of the orphanage. She mentally remembers that there had been around thirty kids when they had arrived: this is going to be a _long_ game of hide and seek, what with the lack of defined restrictions to hiding places.

Tony walks over to her, continues counting under his breath. She smiles up at him with the ease of familiarity, and there is a moment when she is suddenly tempted to lean into his side, tilt her head to rest on his shoulder, and press a soft kiss against the pulse in his neck. She catches herself, however, and instead leans up with a tissue to wipe away some of the drool still matting his very expensively styled hair.

"Why are you doing that?" He asks, frowning down at her. It's bizarre to be shorter than him, but without her four inch heels, Pepper is distinctly diminutive next to her boss.

"Wiping the saliva dripping down your hair that was emitted by a child that chewed on my shoelace not ten minutes ago?" She clarifies. "I don't quite know, Mr. Stark. Perhaps you in all your brilliance could inform me…?"

"I liked it," he says, shrugging. "Kind of a symbol of appreciation, you know?"

"Mmmm, we'll find you another that's slightly more hygienic," she replies, and throws away the tainted tissue.

"I don't want sanitation, I want genuine affection." The words are achingly endearing, but she ignores the little flutter in her stomach and instead focuses on professionalism, professionalism at all times.

"We can get both at the same time, Mr. Stark. A thank-you card will be in the mail, I'm certain. You shall be informed of its presence as soon as it arrives."

Tony sighs and fixes her with an exasperated stare, which she accepts serenely and deflects with a practiced air of nonchalance. He gives up shortly and instead comments: "Cute kids."

"Adorable," she agrees. The word does not begin to encompass the warmth and the inevitable affection she feels towards the group.

They fall into a comfortable silence and his counting slows to a stop. He's staring at her, she can tell, so she busies herself with straightening the presents under the tree, all generously donated by Stark Industries. She fixes a bow here, rearranges some wrapping there, and generally stacks them into some semblance of order. When she finally straightens up and stands, he is still watching her. She flashes a quick grin at him, feels herself blush. It's unnerving, this new Tony—this burning blaze of a man with new emotion and depth and passion and vitality in his eyes, this familiar face with unfamiliar feelings reflected at her.

"It's been about a hundred seconds, wouldn't you say?" She asks lightly.

The spell is broken. Tony shrugs, nods, and says: "Yeah, about."

There's a moment when she hesitates, thinking she sees something dark and broken flash at her from his eyes, but she must've imagined it, because he grins at her and declares in his cocky tone that he _knows_ she hates: "_I'm_ the mathematical genius here, Pepper. Trust me. I can measure time to accurate perfection."

"Is that so?" She murmurs demurely. "Then I suppose there's no excuse for tardiness to a board meeting ever again, correct, Mr. Stark?"

He winces, she knows it. She feels the corners of her lip twitch, but manages to restrain her amusement by walking briskly out the door to fulfill the "seeking" part of the game, not waiting for him to follow.

"So there are two ways of going around this, Potts," he says when he has caught up. "We could either split up or we could stick together."

"Together," she replies without thinking. He quirks an eyebrow, and she flushes just slightly before she catches herself, raises her chin and flicks back her bangs. "I'm afraid your attention span wouldn't last long enough without me there to guide you."

"Pepper, you can guide me _wherever_ you want," he says with a smirk.

Tactfully, she ignores him.

* * *

The first group of children is giggling so hard that Pepper can hear them from the other end of the hallway of considerable length. She feigns oblivion and watches Tony do likewise, peering into empty nooks and crannies with an air of completely innocence. Tony even throws in a few head scratches and frustrated sighs, and she has to bite her lip to keep back her burst of laughter. The childish chuckles increase in decibels, with a few hissed shushes interspersed.

"Ms. Potts, these are some phenomenal hiders we're up against," her boss murmurs at her across the room. The giggles fall quiet as the kids listen intently.

"Indeed, Mr. Stark," she replies. "I think we've looked everywhere, except for under that tablecloth on the table in the corner."

Instantly a little girl shrieks loudly, followed by an echo of squeals. Tony grins, wide and brilliant and genuine, stalks over to the table, and flips up the covering. Everyone screams again, and Pepper watches as her boss crows triumphantly, clearly having the time of her life.

She decides that Tony should never be allowed around small children again. It does funny things to her heart.

* * *

Kids have a tendency to stay in groups, she discovers quickly. The next batch is found huddled inside the bathtub on the second floor, curtains drawn and voices hushed. Tony creeps up on them on tiptoe, whips back the fabric, and shouts: "AH-HA!", relishes in the screams and the mad scramble that follows.

It's easier to hide from some frightening future with others, she reflects, than to face it by oneself. To stay in the dark alone is terrifying; the prospects that loom are twenty times worse in solitude than with company. She doesn't blame the children.

When Tony spins to face her with a heart wrenching smile and an extended hand, some witty one liner about how she 'needn't seek to find his heart, it's hers already', she blushes and drops her eyes and busies herself with smoothing a red curl off a nearby girl's forehead.

She looks up with a prim line to her lips and propriety dripping from every syllable of her response.

"Don't joke like that in front of the kids, Mr. Stark."

She sees something flash across his eyes and her stomach twists and drops in reaction.

Children aren't the only ones that hide behind others.

* * *

A good half hour later, a majority of the children have been found and are happily unwrapping presents under staff supervision downstairs. The little girl who had suggested a game at the beginning is currently wrapped around Tony's neck and seated on his shoulders, giggling happily as he sways comically, exaggeratingly, stomping his way out of the room, giving his rider the maximum effect of being up so high. Pepper walks beside him, warily flinching every time the small child slides. She even goes so far as to hold up a hand behind the girl, Rebecca—just in case.

"Pepper, I've got her," Tony sighs in exasperation when she makes an move to catch the child (unnecessary—he reaches out just in the nick of time. This is playing havoc on her nerves. She can see it in the headlines tomorrow: **BILLIONAIRE DROPS SMALL CHILD ON HEAD. **She shudders involuntarily.).

"I'm just making sure," she says defensively.

"Ms. Potts is a worrywart," Tony says to the girl on his shoulder. "Say it with me now—_worry_wart."

"Warrywort."

"It'll do."

She presses her lips into a line to prevent herself from laughing, but is relieved when Tony sets the girl down on the floor anyway, swinging her gently off his shoulders and setting her on safe ground again. Rebecca pouts immediately.

"Just to stop Ms. Potts from worrying," Tony says regretfully. "We don't want her to fret her lovely freckles off, do we?"

"She's a warrywort." Rebecca sighs in understanding, before scuffing her shoes unhappily and walking off in front of the two adults. She does seem a little appeased, though. Her eyes brighten up, and she spins around a good distance ahead of them to say: "But I like her freckles, and I want them to stay."

"Indeed," Tony murmurs, eyes sparkling as he watches the little girl's progress with clear amusement in his twitching lips. "I like them too."

A hot blush rises in Pepper's cheeks, and she ducks her head to cover it. Tony and small children should never, ever, ever, ever, _ever_ be allowed to—

"Now you have to kiss her, you know."

The statement is so unexpected and so out of the blue that her neck actually cracks when she snaps it up to stare at Rebecca. It was fair crazy that such an innocent voice had uttered such a forbidden thought! As if the girl had peered into all of Pepper's secret delusions, when she allowed herself to be silly and obscenely naïve, and voiced them aloud!

"I'm sorry, dear, what was that?"

She's surprised her voice doesn't squeak with the inquiry, her throat is so dry. Tony, for his part, is speechless. She doesn't dare look at him to note more than that.

"You have to kiss," Rebecca repeats.

"Why do we have to kiss, Rebecca?" Tony asks, and she feels something burn in her stomach. His voice is emotionless and it drives her _crazy_ because she just wants to know what he's _feeling_, for God's sake! This has got to be some sort of joke, some prank he planned with the little girl while the two were in close quarters and Pepper was blissfully unawares.

"Mistletoe," Rebecca answers, rolling her eyes at the billionaire genius C.E.O. of Stark Industries.

Pepper's eyes flick upwards and indeed, hanging above her, feigning innocence, is a clump of the dastardly weed. She's so busy being in shock that it takes a good thirty extra seconds before she can tune in to what Rebecca is saying.

"—so we learned from that story that if you're under the mistletoe with someone else, you gotta kiss them. No matter what. Because it's mistletoe, and you gotta kiss under mistletoe. "

"Yes, but you see, Rebecca, this is different," Pepper begins soothingly, her thoughts awhirl of how to explain _professionalism_ to a six year old, but the child shakes her lovely blonde head of curls stubbornly.

"If I had to kiss Adam and his third person, you have to kiss Mr. Stark."

Behind her, Tony breathes out a soft laugh. "An eye for an eye, eh?"

The little girl disregards this puzzling question and instead demands: "Kiss her."

"Rebecca—", Pepper begins, but Tony cuts her off.

"It's not going to kill you, Potts." His voice is quiet. "I don't have cooties."

"But you're _Tony_," she cries, exasperated with the whole situation. Pepper Potts has maintained a level of decency with her employer for the past eternity. It's entirely ludicrous to believe that line will be crossed because of a six year old's demands at an orphanage. Life wouldn't be that cruel.

He laughs again, faintly, but the sound is harsh and bitter. "Am I that repulsive, Potts?"

She's stunned into stuttering, and once the words start, she can't stop them.

"N-no, that's—that's not what I meant, I meant you're _Tony_, you're my boss and you're my friend and you're Ironman and C.E.O. and you're a genius, and you sleep around and we both know how you treat girls, not saying I have a problem with it, just that you don't take it seriously and you would just hurt m—you would just hurt—it would just hurt my work and it's unprofessional and the company and—you know I care about you, I didn't, it wasn't supposed to be—"

He crosses the space between them in two strides and silences her with his mouth on hers. Her eyes flutter shut of their own accord.

It's not a long kiss, not a deep one. Once he's sure she won't blather anymore, he relaxes the pressure, slides one hand to cup her jaw and stroke her cheek with its thumb, the other to her waist, pressing until she leans in closer to him. She isn't sure how, but her hands end up tangled in his hair (He needed a haircut—hadn't she been nagging at him forever to get a haircut?) and on his shoulder, gripping him for support. His mouth moves reassuringly, his body warm and solid against hers, and she melts, melts into _Tony_, the scent and the feel and _God_, she'd _wanted_ this for _so long_, _all of him_, his passion and his burn and his fire and his loyalty, every bit of _life_ and brain and charm and wit and _love_, _all for her, all her's_--

He pulls away then, lets out a quiet "_Fuck_" (that she prays Rebecca doesn't hear) before drawing in a ragged breath.

She's in no better shape. Her heart is pounding and her palms are sweaty and her lips are trembling and swollen and his hair is mussed and his eyes—_Oh God, his eyes_—are dark, darker than normal, almost pitch black with—with _what_?

"There," Rebecca says smugly. The moment is broken, and she takes a shaky step back, keeping her eyes glued to the floor. She can't look at him right now, she can't. Her stomach has suffered through enough swoops as it is. The little girl child, however, is the epitome of oblivion to the torment of her two companions. "That was a nice kiss. Much better than Adam's."

"We should get back," Tony says, and Pepper is grateful to hear that his voice is hoarse and rasps slightly. At least she isn't the only one shaken up. "The others are waiting for us at the Christmas tree."

They walk back in silence to the chaos that is present opening time. Pepper isnt' sure how to describe the journey—utter quiet, an eternity and a blink of an eye simultaneously. Her head is pounding with thoughts and considerations and ideas and hopes and she doesn't know _what_ else. The scene that greets her is almost a relief—something else to focus on. There is wrapping paper and tape and tissue paper torn and scattered everywhere, a chattering mess of kids who hug their beloved Tony when he appears.

It takes a good five minutes before the children are distracted again by the remaining presents and detach themselves from her boss (her _boss_. She had just kissed her_ boss_.). By that time, everything has sunk in. Her breathing has calmed and although she's still slightly shaky, her hands and voice are steady.

Tony sucks in a breath, runs a hand through his hair, and approaches her purposefully. She sees it out of the corner of her eye and turns to face him, biting her lip.

"Pepper—" He begins, offers. He gestures once, twice, and there is something so heartbreakingly earnest in his eyes, a shadow of begging and of hope and of broken understanding if she doesn't, if she won't listen. There is honesty there, in that face she knows so well. In that instant, a flood a myriad a decade of memories hit her at once.

"_How big are your hands? Get down here, I need you." _

_"I'm not crazy, Pepper. I just finally know what I have to do. And I know in my heart that it's right."_

_"I don't like it when you have plans."_

_"So there are two ways of going around this, Potts. We could either split up or we could stick together."_

_"Don't joke like that in front of the kids, Mr. Stark." _

_"Worrywart."_

_"I have you for the other eight."_

_"Who else? I only have you." _

_"Will that be all, Mr. Stark?" _

_"That will be all, Ms. Potts." _

She meets his eyes squarely, chin tilted up and gaze firm, and whatever he's about to say, whatever explanation or confession or explosion implosion, is stopped by a look at her face. He looks at her, blinks in confusion, and then sucks in a breath as she leans into his side.

She is soft and she is warm and she is there, a constant, steady and strong and delicate all simultaneously. He doesn't have words to describe what he's feeling right now, anyway, so he simply shifts his arm around her waist and pulls her in closer. They watch the kids unwrap presents like that—there, in silence, together, together, together.

* * *

It's much later. The brown haired boy, Adam, has fallen asleep in her lap. She scoops up the scrap of manhood and shifts his weight to her hip, watches him stir and mumble and then busy himself in her neck and shoulder and continue to sleep. It's painfully endearing. She presses a soft, slow kiss to the curled mess resting on her left shoulder, murmurs something warm and gentle and soothing into his ear, and looks up to see Tony staring at her, eyes dark and inscrutable and oddly burning. For some reason, a queer ache flashes through her heart, and she can see it all for a moment, so clear and tangible and solid: a curly brown haired boy of her own, every day spent carrying him up to his room to sleep, Tony in the background with eyes and mouth soft and something—passion and pride and affection and more than that, _oh God_, so much more than that—shining at her.

He still hasn't spoken. He doesn't need to. She can read every word, every emotion, every inexpressible, tangible hope in his eyes.

She normally swats away those idle daydreams, but this time, she lets it drift and murmur and bubble sweetly, settles herself in the _whatifwhatifwhatif_, and feels the ends of her lips curl up softly in a shadow of a smile.

**A/N: Read and review, please? This was abnormally long for me, but I think I like it! (I have a hard time liking my own work, so I'm particularly happy.) Please give me your input! I really appreciate each and every one of you. Again, thank you so much for your continued support. You all mean the world to me.  
**


	8. Chapter 8 aka Take Three

_"O wonder! How many goodly creatures are there here! How beauteous mankind is!O brave new world! That has such people in't!" _

Some Billy for you all. This kind of oddly inspired me to write this little snippet, so I thought I'd include it.

**A/N: Yeah, well, I just did really well on my English midterm and that helped boost up my faltering confidence in my writing abilities quite a lot. Soooo…here's the next one-shot. Yet another take on how the first kiss could've happened. **

**It's nice and fluffy and light and crisp because it's sunny outside, and the grass is green and the sky is blue and my world is a clear shade of beautiful :). I'm sorry I suck at updating but it's college, guys. I can't be expected to do anymore writing than my major demands until I have free time--and I usually spend that sleeping. But if you keep encouraging me, I could be persuaded to give up some of said sleep.  
**

**Meaning, thank you all so, so much for reading and reviewing. Please continue to do so—you have no idea how much I appreciate it. **

**K, without further ado—First Kiss, Take Three.

* * *

**

One of the best parts of practically living with Tony Stark is the beach side property.

It's late, really late. She left his house just past three a.m., headed to her car for the exhausting drive home. She has to be up again the next morning at six. It'd been a long, particularly restless day—one of those bone achingly weary ones, all debunking paparazzi theories and arguing with board members about him missing a meeting yet _again_. She'd barely even spoken with Tony, just a few brusque instructions in the office to sign here and call this number and show up at this place at this time before she had to whisk off to soothe yet another ruffled executive. Everything is hollow and empty on days like this: she forgets why she works, what her purpose is. She gets so tired of it all sometimes.

Perhaps that's why she does it: it's late and her soul is tired. There's so little rest in her world, in her whirlwind of a life. And there is always peace to be found in the rhythmic crashing of the waves upon the stoic shore.

And so Pepper heads out the door with a half-hearted good-bye to her boss—who responds just as dully—and makes it all the way to her car door before changing her mind, before dropping her keys on the roof of her BMW carelessly and turning on her Louboutin heel to make the dangerous trek down the side of his house to the beach.

She takes off those blasted feet pinching torture traps before she makes ten steps. Drops her thousand dollar shoes on the side of the road like litter. It's spontaneous.

Perhaps that's why she does it: it's late and her soul is tired and it's spontaneous.

She misses spontaneity—as a child, Pepper was all glorious freckles and ginger hair, heat and passion and spur of the moment. She's been tempered into a fine young woman, a diplomat, the perfect secretary. It's more efficient this way, all clean and cut and chiseled. That doesn't stop her from missing the way she was.

She climbs her way down the rocky steps and path, relishing the slap of bare feet on cold stone, balances with her hands. In the moonlight, the rocks glimmer sharply. Caught at the right moment, even unfeeling grey stone glows iridescent. An edge cuts her ankle a little and she winces. A nail rips when she loses a step and flails out for balance—another professionally polished part of her lost. She likes it this way.

Today, for the first time in over a year and a half, she feels like quitting. There is nothing for her here but emptiness.

But the air in her hair is cold and fresh and her feet nip a little against the rocks. She feels free.

That's probably why she does it: it's late and her soul is tired of fighting and it's spontaneous. She feels free.

It takes her five, maybe ten minutes to climb all the way to the bottom. The first feel of the sand between her toes, settling comfortably, all cooled warmth and rough softness, is something like heaven. She takes a breath in, out. Again. In, out.

She allows herself to be honest here, out in the open air and the crunch of sand on skin.

If she were to admit it to herself, half the problem lies in her boss himself. There is nothing she can do here, stuck in this limbo: no escape from everything she feels. She's in love with him, she knows it. Desperately, irreversibly in love. She had originally planned to wait—to stay, quiet and steady, until he's able to love her back. But on days like this, all caught up in bureaucracy and paperwork, him too busy saving the world and running a company to breathe, she feels hopeless. There is nowhere to turn except to the ocean.

She does it because it's late and her soul is tired of fighting and it's spontaneous. She feels free after having nowhere to turn.

She walks for a bit, head down so she can see the slight imprints she leaves behind, watches with fascination the shadowed dents she has caused. The beach is fluid and malleable. It's nice to know she makes a mark.

She meanders so she's standing in the surf, watches the waves ripple around her feet. After a while—half an hour, five minutes, she's not sure—she sits, plops down right there with her feet still in the water. She pushes her pencil skirt up, hiking it to her thighs. It gets wet regardless, but she doesn't care, just stays—like she meant to, regardless of circumstance. She puts out her hands in front of her and dips them in, rests them on the surface of the ocean current. The waves adjust immediately, flowing around the intrusion of her fingers. It's like floating and hovering and she can only take so much beauty before she leans back on her palms. The sand is cold and sticks, gritty and irregular. She buries her fingers in deeper.

The sky above her is dark and clear and velvet, speckled with spots of spirits. Everything is smooth and blue and soothing, and she relishes it—the sting of the cut on her ankle, the rough pebbles grating under her nails, the soaked skirt and the blazer she has tossed away carelessly, and most of all the ocean whispering soft secrets on her feet.

It's all heaven and eternity, no petty bitterness or soul draining business. She loses herself in the constellations—she knows the Big Dipper, she knows the Little—where is Sirius? She can still identify the North Star but not Orion's Belt anymore.

"Hi."

She literally jolts and tumbles to the left, catches herself on her elbow in the surf. She looks up and sees her boss standing there, hands in pockets, smiling slightly down at her.

"Don't _do_ that," she gasps. He shrugs his apology and sits down next to her. She glares at him and he leans over and brushes the sand off her elbow. It's surprisingly gentle and she holds herself back from melting.

"Didn't mean to scare you," he says. His eyes skim up her legs and he raises an eyebrow and she blushes furiously, but meets his gaze and refuses to adjust her skirt. She was here first. She's spent her whole life bending over backwards, but tonight? Tonight is hers, free and fierce.

They sit there for a while like that, side by side, and she closes her eyes, wishes away the tension. They never used to have tension. It's like everything between them—_thatdress hisscars herhands, trembling as she shookshookshook his shoulder, trying to wake him up amidst glassandceiling_—has been building and building and building and building, slowly heating up. They must overflow, burst, explode at some point. Their capacity must be reached.

A silence. It stretches for eternity, and her heart pounds and her palms sweat but the sea murmurs _hushhushhush, everything will be fine if you hush_. So she sits and hushes, because who is she to fight against something so deep and all encompassing?

"I've missed you, Pep," he says quietly out of nowhere.

She literally jerks out of her thoughts, snaps her head back to stare at him. A nervous laugh escapes her.

"What are you talking about, Tony? I'm right here."

"But you're not the same," he replies, staring at her. The honesty stuns her into silence. "We haven't been the same."

She wants to argue, wants to protest and play dumb and pretend like she doesn't know what he's saying. But his eyes are drained and tired and his voice is hoarse with honesty, and he's right, damn it. He's absolutely right. She's been holding back, motionless. Refusing to release, because she's too frightened of what will happen if she does. He hasn't acted when she has stayed still—so perhaps it's time for her to do something, her to combust.

And tonight? Tonight she is _tired_ of the pretence, tired of ignoring everything, tired of pressing forward like nothing has changed, like she can still make him sign forms and remind him of meetings without thinking of the heat of his hand pressed against the small of her back, like she doesn't dream of the taste of him.

"Maybe it's because we're not the same," she whispers.

And before she can think—or maybe because she allows herself think, for the first time in a long time, she isn't sure—she leans forward and presses her lips to his, soft but firm, gentle but sure.

She isn't sure why she does it. Maybe it's because it's late and her soul is tired of fighting. It's spontaneous. She feels free and she has nowhere left to turn but his arms, his lips, his heat and his heart.

At first he freezes—warm under her touch, but so still. Her lips falter and her heart triples its rate in pounding—it isn't healthy for her chest, she's certain—and doubt floods her mind, murky and thick and drowning and _whatifwhatifwhatif_. But then, suddenly, his hands fly up to her hair, to tangle therein, to pull her up from this suffocation.

And she stops thinking, can only feel—_hislipsaresoft_ and _hisgoateegrazesherskin_ and he _tastes_ like—like...like cold pizza and tequila, like familiarity and years and years of yearning, like everything and anything she has ever fought for and dreamed of since she can remember fighting and dreaming.

She pulls back for a breath and he gasps: "_Pepper_" into her neck, and it's enough encouragement for her to dive back under again, to let the roaring of the ocean and the shine of the stars lead her.

When they pause again, his breath is ragged and she can feel the pound of his heart under her hands—how did they end up pressed against his chest? She isn't sure--and everything settles back--but never to normal, things can never be _normal _again. She isn't doing much better on the calm scale, so she leans her forehead against his and smiles into his eyes. Above and around her, the world resumes its normal orbit. The waters flow in and out and the stars twinkle a little brighter.

They don't speak—she's scared to, and she can tell he is, too. This is new and this is strange and this is a little nerve wracking. But for the first time in a long time, she feels like things are going to be okay.

The best part of practically living with Tony Stark is Tony Stark.

* * *

**A/N: I'm not sure if I like this one too much, so if you guys could give me input, that would be fantastic. I just figured it was time for Pepper to make a move—it's been Tony initiating first kisses all along so far, and she's got to pull her weight, too. Let me know what you thought, because I'm feeling like this is too cheesy. Please read and review, I'd really appreciate it!!!!**


	9. Chapter 9 aka The Proposal, Take One

**A/N: It's been over a year since I've last updated. That's ridiculous, I know. I'm so sorry—it was a combination of college and lack of inspiration. However...I just watched the second Iron Man movie. Can I take a moment to say that I love Tony Stark? Because I **_**love**_** Tony Stark. **

**Unbetaed, because that's how I roll, and my one option is currently in the process of moving away from her childhood home. This is for you, Jane. Just a little bit of fluff to cheer you up. **

**Anyway, to finish up this long author's note: I'm going to try a series of one-shots again, except not about the first kiss. So...this is The Proposal, Take One.**

**Please read and review? I'd really appreciate it! It's been a while since I've written, and I'd love feedback of all sorts. Thank you all for your support and constant encouragement. You guys are the best, seriously. **

**

* * *

The Proposal, Take One  
**

It's 6 a.m., as per usual. A Wednesday morning—grey, dreary, 50s outside, a bit blustery. Breakfast is really the only time that they're both free to eat together. It's a little hard, scheduling life around conferences and press interviews and oh, say, superhero missions to save the world. So they at least eat breakfast together.

She doesn't bother to look up from her bowl of cereal when she says, calmly: "Pepper Stark sounds horrendous."

She always eats Honey Bunches of Oats with skim milk. He's a bit more erratic in breakfast behavior, he must admit. Sometimes he devours his Cinnamon Toast Crunch (come on, you can _see_ the taste!), sometimes he forgoes cereal for everything bagels or toast or blueberry muffins. Sometimes he goes all out—on those nights when he can't sleep, he likes to put together elaborate breakfast meals, eggs and pancakes and sausage. But she's all about her Honey Bunches of Oats.

This morning, he's eating Lucky Charms, his second favorite—because he's unceasingly fascinated with the putrid blue grey green color his milk turns by the end of his meal.

And then it hits him. What she just said strikes through his morning addled brain and hits him.

And then he's literally stunned speechless, frozen—like, milk actually drips down his chin and his precious, carefully trimmed goatee.

She wrinkles her nose, gives a little shake of the head, all without looking up. "And Virginia Stark sounds even worse, ugh. Like I'm some sort of...snooty prissy grandmother." She heaves a great sigh, chews another bite delicately. She's always been a delicate eater—everything about her has always been delicate—that softness of skin, the lightness of complexion, even her tiny ears. He's always loved her ears—the _fragility_ of them. "My parents did me no favors when they named me."

She looks up at him. "Can I keep my maiden name when you marry me?"

He chokes on his Lucky Charms. Something goes down the wrong pipe. It's the red balloon that does him in, he knows it. They've always been his least favorite.

"Tony?" She cries, alarmed, when he starts to cough and hack violently. She rushes out of her chair and to his side, pounds his back in a panic. "Are you alright?"

He ends up spitting the whole mouthful of food out onto the table, gasps for air. The putrid blue grey green milk looks no better coming out than it did going in, especially with the mess of red balloon marshmallow (_damn _those red balloons) and chewed up cardboard of actual cereal.

She blinks at him as he clutches his throat and struggles for breath, tucks a strand of hair elegantly behind an ear. "Well, that wasn't quite as romantic as I imagined."

He just wheezes at her, but manages a pretty dirty look.

"I got tired of waiting," she says simply. "I know how dumb you can be, Tony. It took you ten years to realize you loved me. And I want this. I want us. And I'm tired of waiting."

He still can't quite speak, but he manages to grab her by the hair at the nape of her neck, tighten a hand at the divot of her hipbone, and pull her to him. And then he's kissing her, milk in the goatee and near death experience and all. When he's done, they're both gasping for breath, and for very different reasons than before.

In the background, Dummy cleans up the Lucky Charms spit-up.

* * *

**A/N: Shout out to Honey Bunches of Oats and Cinnamon Toast Crunch as my favorite breakfast cereals ever. **

**And as a sidenote—I had no idea where this was going when I started it. And now it's done, hahahaha. And I'm still not quite certain as to where it went, and if I like that destination. Pleasepleaseplease read and review? I figured I should get back in the swing of things, even if I'm unsure. Your feedback will encourage me greatly ****. **


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